


Loaded

by LelithSugar



Category: Legend (2015)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Character Study, Consensual Non-Consent, Consensual yes... safe and sane not so much, Don't Try This At Home, Dubious Consent, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Fantasy, Gun Kink, Gun play, Guns, Knives, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Smut, fantasised non-consent, imagagined/fantasised violence and noncon, of sorts, possibly darker than the author intended, this one got away from me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-20
Updated: 2018-01-20
Packaged: 2019-03-07 00:39:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13423026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LelithSugar/pseuds/LelithSugar
Summary: The thrill of danger is real and visceral. There's no pain or shouting, no chase or immediate violence but the stored potential for it is electric: every nerve is primed, every hair standing on end because there, in the soft silence of Ron Kray’s living room, death stares Teddy in the face.Teddy doesn't stare back. He's got better tricks up his sleeve.A note on those warnings: the noncon mentioned is fantasised, no actual violations of consent take place: everyone's happy as you like.  The violence? That's fantasised/off camera too. This is sweeter than it may seem.





	Loaded

**Author's Note:**

> Is this corner of fandom dead? I suspect it may be. Still, if there's anyone out there please give me a wave! I'm on tumblr as randomactsofviolence and I do very much enjoy feedback.
> 
> Dedicated to Threewick with thanks for the encouragement, to Owlbee for the booze and to Emphysematous, because.

Loaded.

 

All things considered, Mad Teddy might just be the last sane man in London.

They brought a shrink in to see him, last time he got collared, who’d as much as said there was nothing wrong with him. Well, words like _‘disturbed,’ ‘manic’_ and _‘unstable’_ had been bandied about, as they have been most of his life, but he’d made it out and down the courtroom steps with a smile on his face and no bottle of pills rattling away in his pocket - not like Ron, bless him - and nothing more serious on his medical records than poor little Teddy’s weak lungs. A clean bill of health.

It's just that he likes unpredictable things: loud noises; the lick of fire. The spurt of blood. Thunderstorms. They always make him a bit hot under the skin, the electricity crackling in the air, never knowing when the next bang will rattle the windows… he's thought more than once about running out onto the Heath when it's raining stair rods, stripping naked and flinging his arms out. Taking his chances.

People have always told Teddy that God doesn't like people like him. The way he sees it, they keep a respectful distance, both blissfully ignoring the other’s existence altogether. God wouldn't dare lay a finger on him.

But it's exciting, playing the high stakes games. Teddy’s a gambler but money got boring about the same time he stopped being short of it, because where's the thrill in betting something you can afford to lose? And it's that thrill that drives him. His mam used to call it _‘looking for trouble_ ’, said he had a death wish, carrying on the way he did with the people he did, but he'd seen her buried. And besides: the way Teddy sees it, to run with wolves, and play with knives, and know that every day you survived, you were invincible...  and not even get slightly turned on by it all? You'd have to be mad.

At least Ron understands.

“I’ve got a new toy, Ted," he calls through the lounge one afternoon. "Want to come and see?”

Ron is standing by his armchair, ready to settle in for the evening. He'd told Teddy to take his shoes off when they got in, so Teddy knows he wants him to stop over, cosy up. It's one of the things Ron loves about him, the initiative: Ted doesn't faff about wanting instructions in words of one syllable, not when Ron’s intentions are perfectly obvious to anyone with two brain cells to rub together.

Ron produces a gun from the back of his waistband as he sits down, and instantly Teddy can see it’s not the Luger he’s been using for years, just from the set of his hand around it. It's stockier, newer. A revolver.

“Nice, Ron, really nice.” He sidles up to his chair, trails a hand across the back to touch on Ron’s shoulder, his collarbone, the way nobody else gets to, his breath already heavy with admiration. “That one of the new police Colts? Who you got that off, then?”

“It is not, Teddy my boy.” He hands it over to him, grip first, to look at and no: the police have just been issued with the snub versions and,  naturally, a few have already made their way into the hands of their ilk. But this is the six-inch barrelled version, long and elegant. Imported, but ifRon wanted Teddy to ask how, he’d have already told him.

“Been used?”

“Not yet.”

“Loaded?”

“Yes it is.”

Really, Teddy’s surprised Ron will even let him hold it, after the time Mickey had got hold of a Smith and Wesson and Ron had walked in on them, Tom and Leslie half pissed and playing Russian Roulette.  They were two spins of the barrel and two rums in each when Ron had marched in, got the measure of it and taken the gun off him. In four clean shots Ron had emptied the live round into the coffee table and Tom had emptied his stomach into the aspidistra in the corner. The poor bastard hadn’t known them very well, then, hadn’t considered they might not be bluffing and how close he'd come to having his brains splattered all over the wallpaper. Teddy had thought that was incomparably hilarious, at the time; Ron had battered all four of them nearly senseless.

Mickey came off the worst, though Teddy had gone home with a cracked collarbone himself, the imprint of the butt of the gun square and black around the dent. He hasn’t thought about it in a while and still struggles not to laugh at the memory. Their fucking faces as they pulled the trigger on themselves with trembling hands, and the when they watched him do the same with a grin and not the barest flinch. The staggered clatter of the barrel spinning round, the weightless hovering instant between the squeeze of the trigger and the knowledge that you were still there to be thinking about it: surviving, every time, just like Teddy somehow knew he would, until he didn’t.

He’d been the one to load the gun, and he was the one cackling himself into hiccups whilst he fired it at his own head. In hindsight it wasn't surprising Tom didn't think there was actually a bullet in there.

There had been, in fact, two. Even Ron doesn’t know that.

“What’re you giggling at now, you loony?” He’s so fond, the way he says it, and Teddy knows he could tell Ron anything. That doesn’t mean he will.

“Nothin', Ron. It's lovely.”

“Yeah?” His voice goes a little quiet, a little tense, at the way Teddy licks his bottom lip. Ron drags the muzzle along Teddy's jaw, and makes all the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. “You wanting to give it a kiss, then?”

A moment’s fiery heat and, see, this is why they work. There probably aren't many people who'd refuse Ron’s ideas with a loaded gun pointed at them, but there can't be many that would have the ideas before Ron does, either.

Teddy drops to his knees. 

“Come on, you. You know I like to see you. Get your shirt off.”

He's only gesturing with the Colt because it's what's in his hand - otherwise it would be the cigar - but the effect of Ron waving a weapon at him is immediate and searing. Ted pulls his shirt off and yanks his vest over his head, breathless and sinking fast, aware of the way his belt cuts into his hips when he's kneeling and his trousers are starting to pull at the front where excitement is making him hard already.

The thrill of danger is real and visceral. There's no pain or shouting, no chase or immediate violence but the stored potential for it is electric: every nerve is primed, every hair standing on end because there, in the soft silence of Ron Kray’s living room, death stares Teddy in the face.

Teddy doesn't stare back. He's got better tricks up his sleeve.

He starts with a lick over the end of the barrel, eyes boring into Ron’s, before he settles his lips around the end, softly. Respectful, like.  He's seen it himself, felt the weight in his hand: every chamber is full. Lethal.

“That's it. You're a good boy, ain'tcha.”

Teddy sets his jaw and sucks, breathing heavy through his nose. The warmer the metal gets, the more it tastes like blood. He slides his tongue up the seam underneath the barrel, and smiles around it, mostly to himself: funny, how much like the fat vein on the underneath of a cock that feels, with the length in his mouth budging up hard against the back of his throat. Men are funny things themselves, so animal and guileless. Teddy wouldn't call himself an expert on women but he can tell you as sure as eggs is eggs that no woman designed a gun, for them to look the way they do.

Ron pulls the pistol back so that he can push his thumb into the corner of Teddy's lips with his free hand, bracing Teddy’s mouth and jaw to have it shoved back in again. The muzzle bumps against his teeth, cold and jarring. It's not that Ron is clumsy with it: Teddy doesn't even think he's being careless, so much. It's just that the metal is so unforgiving, rigid and definite, not quite as close to what it's mimicking as it feels like it should be.

Teddy lets out a little whimper of need and fear, real and hot, as the sight catches hard on the roof of his mouth. It could be bleeding, it will definitely bruise and the need for that makes him ache.

Everyone's always so careful with his face. So fucking careful, so hesitant, but Ron has been in enough scrapes to know that Teddy's beauty isn't made of glass or spun sugar, that he can take a fair battering and be every bit as pretty. Chance would be a fine thing, most of the time, but now he can feel it: that edges of control shimmering, ready to burst, when it’s a lot of effort to be careful and that effort’s better spent on other things. This is when it becomes real, and that reality’s so hot it makes Teddy shift his hips just to stay in his skin, getting his knees and feet settled properly so that the press of the bruising doesn’t distract him from the action. The noise of his spit sliding between his lips and the metal is disgusting.

Ron has his finger positioned behind the trigger so he can't slip. That's good, his medication makes his hands shake sometimes, but a split second’s decision and that would be it for Teddy. He'd be red mist, not for the first time in a strange way, and not that he'd know anything about it, presumably. But he's helpless at Ron’s feet, his life so immediately in Ron’s hands.

And Ron knows exactly what to do with that power. Ron knows people, how to play to their senses and manipulate their fears; how to pluck at Teddy’s strings without tripping his fuses. He knows to use a little force to get the best out of him, to let his mind roll around in the filth of fantasy; to thrust the revolver in and out of his mouth, past his lips, to really fuck his face with it, grazing Teddy’s lip against the curve of his canine: a heady throb and then the cold of the metal stinging split against the warm dribble of blood onto his bottom lip, thick and almost creamy round his teeth.  Teddy doesn't spit it. He sucks it from behind his lips to let it gather and just lets it dribble down his chin when Ron pulls the gun out, and gives him a smile.

Ron fumbles with his trousers and places the head of his cock to Teddy’s lips.

That's right, natural. It was always going to be the next move and Teddy welcomes it, opens his mouth to greet the taste and the feel of him, soft hot salt instead of cold metal and gunpowder. _Not been used, my arse._  Ron’s right hand, with the gun, drops lax to his side as his left takes up a gentle hold in Teddy’s hair and, well, that's a waste.

Teddy pulls back.

“Hold it…” Teddy gestures before he gives up, takes the hand holding the revolver and lifts it so the muzzle presses into his temple, weight digging it into his skull. “...here?”

He's not sure how that will go over, but he can't not ask. Not when they're this close. There's a lot of give and take with him and Ronnie, take and give, and if nothing else Ron will respect him for speaking up. Teddy always cuts to the heart of what he wants, quick and smooth like gutting the rabbits he hunts when they're out at the caravan. Ron won't eat them if he sees him do it, he's funny about it, but Violet has learned to make a fucking wonderful rabbit pie, so all’s not lost.

“Oh, Teddy,” Rone breathes, in that soft tone Ted’s never quite made out. It could be wonder, could be exasperation or despair. Maybe a bit of all three. “Is that what you want?”

Ron had better not get on his high horse about it. It's no worse than the times he’s fucked Teddy with a straight razor held against his throat, the times Teddy’s has to choose a code word because he doesn't want Ron to stop when he kicks and cries and gives it his best _no, please don't, I don't want to, don't make me…_ He's a good actor, is Teddy. Has to be careful to make sure Ron knows what he's up to when he wants to play those games or he gets spooked, his Ronnie, doesn’t like the idea of really making Teddy do something he doesn’t want.  And he can hardly do any of that with anyone else.

Not that he's really complaining, that nobody would dare try. The other lot think he's sweet as punch because he's pretty; the lads won’t lay an unwanted finger on him because they’re well aware Teddy’s crazy, he's trouble, and he's Ron Kray’s trouble at that. It just means that this might just be the only time he's forced on his knees with a gun against his head.

So Teddy sucks Ron’s cock like his life depends on it.

Ron just sits back in his chair, grunting occasionally with his almost surprised enjoyment, and says nothing in particular to work on his fantasy but nothing to scupper it either. The line is blurring anyway, the fact that Ron would never really hurt his best boy easily balanced with -  even outweighed by - the knowledge that everything else about the scene is the real deal; the danger is no less absolute for what's going on in his head. He bets some men staring down the barrel have imagined it _wasn't_ happening, and they're not any less dead for it. Why should the inverse be different for him?

Teddy gives up on pretence: with just the two of them there there's no reason to pretend like he's not hot for being made to do this. It's his fantasy and Ron is good enough to indulge him but it won't matter to him a bit that Teddy breaks role now to rub the palm of his hand against his prick through his trousers. If anything, Ron likes the way Teddy can't help a moan around his cock then, giving up his control. Who knows what’s going on in his head, when he’s got Teddy on the floor with his cock in the boy’s mouth and a revolver at his head? Ron’s always been bonkers.

“That's a lad. Yeah. You like that, don't you.”

The gun’s still there, hot danger in his face, so the only answer Teddy could possibly give is a nod and another breathy groan, so that’s what he does. He'll put some effort in. It might be the last thing he ever does, right?  And wouldn't that just be hilarious? Kicking the bucket with someone's prick shoved down his neck? Teddy wonders if Ron would finish, anyway. Wonders if he knows Teddy would want him to, because if Teddy’s made a point of anything in this life it’s that none of his rules apply to his Ron; that Ronnie Kray can do what he likes with him and Teddy will do nothing but enjoy it to his very, very last.

For someone so detached, Ron is refreshingly present when it comes to his physical form, thick and urgent and always ready to respond to Teddy’s eagerness and whatever part of his body he presents for it. Teddy is held firmly between Ron’s hand on his nape and the promise of the gun, but there’s no real force in it. These little reminders that Ron doesn’t know his own strength, doesn’t always remember where his hands are and what they’re doing, have always made Ted light up with that sort of apprehension that makes his nerves sing. He’s enjoying himself, imagining what a show he’d have to put on if it would be the last thing he ever did, clenching and shuddering to himself whilst Ron just slides back and forth over his tongue without any real aggression: he doesn’t need that. Ron could make anybody please him, whether he was armed or not. He takes very little notice of any of that, only tensing for the second it takes to fetch a sharp breath in through his teeth before he sighs and spills over in Teddy’s mouth. Ted swallows without question, shifting against the heel of his hand, his own pleasure spiking at the relief of a job well done.

“Let's be having it then, Ted. Let’s see you”

Teddy doesn't hesitate, just gets his prick out and gets his fist round it properly, stroking it in quick pulls; takes his hand away to spit in it and then carries on because Ron is watching, waiting for him to show him what he'll do for him, when he has to. Has to do whatever he’d told because Ron could kill him at any second, that’s nothing new, and all he wants is for Teddy to make good on the straining of his cock and come for him, to show him he wants this.

Ron thumbs the hammer back and aims squarely at Teddy’s forehead.

“Now or never, Teddy.”

And Teddy goes off like a shot.

He falls back onto his heels as come spatters his stomach and his lap, his ragged breathing and ringing ears suddenly deafening in a silence he wasn’t aware of before. He’s back in the real word, suddenly, in the empty normality of any weekday evening except there are tears on his cheeks, the taste of salt and iron and charcoal in his mouth, and when he grabs at Ron’s trousers and jumper to crawl up into his lap, Teddy’s hands are shaking.

“Oh Teddy, my boy, what are we going to do with you?” Ron sounds like he might be falling asleep. This concern for Teddy’s wellbeing,for his sanity, it’s not new to him. Not urgent, more a background noise in the chaos of their life, somehow soothing.

“Anything you want, Ron.” Teddy’s voice is soft, offhand almost, but his eyes are trained on the loaded revolver on the arm of the chair.  “Anything you want.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> There we are! please do leave feedback if you enjoyed, there's another one sort of considering being in the works and I could do with the encouragement and any wants or ideas you may have.


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